Winter Sun
by Dawn of Aiden
Summary: As the adepts head to the lightouse, another young adept is forced to do the unthinkable. Forced to leave his hometown, he sets out into the world. I dont own Golden Sun. Please Review.
1. A Dying Wish

_I don't own Golden Sun, I just wishes I did. _

Chapter 1

A Dying Wish

The whole town was out to see them off. They were all there to pin their final, fading hopes on the youths setting out on their quest to the last unlit lighthouse. All but two of them.

At the opposite side of the village, the two sat in a small igloo. One of them, covered in blankets and furs, huddled near the fire. The man was old, his short grey hair thin and scraggy, and in his eyes was an unmistakable resignation: he knew he did not have long left. He turned to the other figure and spoke, his voice a ragged croak that barely came out.

"My son". He paused. "Mjor." The other, who had been looking mournfully into the flames, looked at the older man. There was some resemblance between them: the son's hair was light blue as his father's had been, and was swept to the right side of his face. His skin was pale, partly due to his fear, but also to the Proxian environment and the cold that lasted all year.

"Father?" asked the son, Mjor, placing his hand upon the old man's, trying to ignore the chill of the flesh and the bone he could feel so easily. "What is it? Do you need something?"

The dying man shook his head. "I want you to do something for me." He exhaled, and both of them heard the dry rattle in his chest. He would be gone soon; there was nothing anyone could do. "I want you to escape—get away from here—Prox is—" He coughed, his face creasing in pain. Mjor gripped his hand more tightly.

"Father, don't strain yourself. You can survive this, I know you can," Mjor said, knowing it was a lie.

Again, his father shook his head. "No, I can't; neither medicine nor psynergy can help me now." He grinned a little, as if this was comforting to him, then continued to speak. "You must escape from Prox: the edge of the world is closing in. The lighthouse—" he stopped, wheezing, "—even if somehow it is lit, it is too late to save us. Go and save yourself. Take my ship, and my sword, and go to the mainland. Live your life as best you can, until the whole world collapses..."

"I cannot leave you!" the son protested, his red eyes pleading, hoping and praying for another order, another command. This was like nothing his father had ever told him to do before. He could feel it in the air.

"You must. But..." The old man paused, clearly hesitant. "There is one more thing you can do for me."

"I will do anything but leave you!" Mjor shouted, and flames formed in his hand, a product of his primitive and ill-learnt psynergy.

The old man smiled. "You can do it...good. I am not long for this world... I want you to take my sword, and finish me now. Then leave..."

The son was silent, and backed away. "No...no," he murmured, his voice trembling in fear and objection.

"Please," his father begged. "I have a day at most, and I can feel it now—the pain is eating me alive. Let me die as I lived, a warrior." He coughed, and forced a smile.

"You demand this of me?" The son shook, unable to meet his father's gaze.

"Please." The old man turned slightly, looking at his son. Then, he did something Mjor had never seen him do: he began to cry. In Mjor's seventeen years, he had never seen his father cry: he was the tough warrior, indestructible: even when his wife had died, he hadn't shed a tear, but had stood in silent contemplation. Yet now he was crying. "Please..."

This was enough; Mjor joined him in his tears, and looked over at his father's sword. It was sharp, impeccably polished. Ready. "I cannot do this!" he sobbed. "You cannot make me!"

"I cannot," the old man replied, tears flowing freely over cracked skin. "I was wrong to ask... Pass me the sword, I will do it."

The son was dumbfounded, and, tears still flowing, took the sword and drew it. He passed it to his father, who tried to grab it, but his strength, once great, could not hold it. Trying again, the dying man let out a yelp of pain as his wrist bent the wrong way. Mjor relented, and balanced the sword on top of the old man's heart, and helped him place his hands upon the hilt. "Remember, flee... Keep going from here," the man wheezed, and pressed down with all his strength. The son looked away.

There was no sound, the conspicuous absence of a sound, followed by a wheeze and a clatter. Mjor looked back. The old man could not even break his own skin, and the blade had fallen to the floor. The son closed his heart, and took the sword once more. His tears fell heavily as he placed the sword again, but this time he brushed aside the old man's arms. "I do this for you," he let out between sobs. He closed his eyes, and pressed down.

"Thank you... Mjor..." the old man said, and was at peace.

Mjor opened his eyes, and pulled out the blade, which fell to the floor. He collapsed to his knees, and the tears stopped. Everything stopped. Even the fire seemed to have gone silent. He had just killed his father. He had just killed his father. His father was dead, by his hand. His eyes opened, and in a dreamlike state, he grabbed the hilt of the sword and slowly walked from the igloo.

Blood stained the snow behind him, leaving a red trail, but Mjor did not notice. He had no idea where he was going. This stopped when he ran into someone coming back into town.

Jarl. She looked at him. "Mjor?" she asked, sounding surprised. "Is that... Is that blood?" She backed away, and ran, shouting to others.

Mjor lost track of what happened next. Others returned, followed the trail, and saw the body. They shouted, and cursed him. Before he knew what was happening, he was standing in front of the village elder. He was still half in a trance. He couldn't say how much later it was.

He only half-heard what was being said: "I sympathize... Father was ill... I understand, but... Banished... Three hours... You can never come back..."

It all just passed over him. He left, and went back to the igloo that was his home. Jarl was there, although she regarded him strangely: something had changed between them.

"Here, I packed for you." Her voice was as cold as the gutted-out fire. "There are all your clothes, food, all your father's money, and his sword... Everything you'll need." Mjor looked at her, and remembered old days. They had grown up together, best of friends, inseparable, she and he, his father treating them both like his own. But those days were gone; despite his father's condition, she still resented him for what he had done. Mjor didn't mind. He did too. "Then I guess," she said, "I guess this is goodbye. I will meet you at the town gates in five minutes."

Mjor looked around, and sighed. He had to sort his mind out. He needed to. He grabbed all that he needed and began to walk to the gate, taking in all the sights. All the memories— himself and Jarl making a snowman when they were young; both of them skating on the river under the stars in a short romantic association... The tears began again.

He got to the gate, and only a small group of people were there. The elder came to him first, accompanied by a small entourage. "You have had to be banished, but we hold you no ill will. I want you to come back, one day. Leave it two years, and we will be able to accept you back. And--" he held out a small pouch. "Take this; it used to be your mother's." Mjor opened it, and gave a soft smile through his tears.

"Thank you," he mumbled, and placed the necklace around his neck. The elder shook his hand, and walked off. A couple more people said their goodbyes, and gave him small gifts, and then it was just the two of them.

"Well," Jarl said, emptily, "I guess I can walk you to your ship." Mjor thought for a moment: yes, it was his ship now. His ill-deserved and ill gotten inheritance from... His mind refused to finish the sentence. They walked in silence for a while, and then Jarl softly grabbed his hand. Mjor turned to her, and saw she was crying, her long, thin silver hair over her shoulder. Her soft white face and her eyes... Now that he looked properly, he could tell she had been crying a lot. Her face was creased, and stained by tears in numbers uncountable. It broke his heart, but he knew it must be doing the same to her, as she had now lost, within hours both a man who was almost her father, and her best friend, her soulmate. "Please come back safe," she said, and kissed him on the cheek, and then wrapped her arms around him.

Mjor enjoyed the touch of her soft flesh as she hugged him, and built all his courage. "Come with me," he offered out of desperation, desperation not to be alone. "My father said Prox would not last long... We could escape together."

Jarl shook her head. "No, I have to stay." She turned away, and they both used the opportunity to wipe tears from their eyes. "I love you," Jarl squeaked.

"I love you too," Mjor freely admitted. She was like his sister; they knew nothing more could work out from experience. But they did not want it to; they liked it as it was. They could have shared anything, anything at all; they used to sit up late at night, watching the stars, and they made plans, plans that they were too embarrassed to tell anyone else. And now... They could not. With one strike of his father's sword, he had ended that. She and he, they were friends, but they had lost the intimacy, and what remained would be gone by the time he was back, he was sure.

They hugged once more, and there was an awkward silence. They were at the ship. Finally, Mjor reached to his finger, and pulled off three rings. "Keep these for me, until I can take them back," he asked.

Jarl accepted, and held them close to her heart. She knew what they were without being told. One used to belong to each of his parents, the third... they had made rings for each other, once. "Will you remember me?" she asked, her voice breaking as she finally abandoned whatever efforts she had been making at staying strong.

"Your name is engraved upon my heart," Mjor said, and they hugged once more.

It felt like an age before they parted, but in truth it was before either of them would have chosen. Mjor looked back at her once, she was standing, watching him intently, her slender figure silhouetted against the roaring snow in the background, her arms clutched over her breast, holding in the heart that threatened to break out of it. He climbed aboard the small ship, dropped his things and walked to the helm. He placed a small, red orb in the alcove made for it, and placed his hands on either side of it. Slowly, the ship began to move, the psynergy powered oars began to move, and the ship groaned to life. He did not look back; it hurt too much.

Jarl remained watching him sail away until long after he had vanished amongst the ice. There was a giant flash behind her; the Mars lighthouse had been lit. Everyone would be celebrating. Everyone but her. She had lost something she could never replace: however they loved each other, whether as a family bond forged over their years of closeness, or something else, the love was something unique.

And it had just sailed away.


	2. An Agreement

Chapter 2

An Agreement

The town was small, but busy. Mjor had been here about a month now, ever since his ship had washed up about a mile or so away. This crowded square was bustling with traders of all kinds shouting their offers from brightly decorated stalls whilst people wandered to and fro among them, being startled by the amazing wares this place had to offer. And Mjor was just to one side of it, in what was easily the darkest, most miserable building bordering this scene.

It was a simple building, where Mjor had managed to find both work and a home, hoping to last out his time before he could return to his _real_ home, in the north… To Prox, to Jarl. But he hated this place. It was so full of life, like it was mocking him for how he had lost his… How his father had...

Mjor shook his head, and leaned against the bar. A waiter. The son of the man who was once the greatest warrior in all Prox, a waiter. That stung also. Before, he had accepted he was grateful for the company, an interruption to the silence of his journey; he had been thankful for the opportunity not to have to search for his place in the world, amazed that things were going so easily. And now, that had worn off, and he saw clearly what he was, how he was treated by the citizens, who saw his pale and tough skin as a sign of how alien he was to them; a sign of evil. Maybe they were right.

"Wondering how you got here?" someone remarked from the far side of the empty room. Mjor looked over to the little alcove, and saw a man, judging from the voice, heavily hooded and robed in dark greys. "I am too. It should have been great… I came so close…" he shook his head, an action which, owing to the darkness of the unlit corner, Mjor could only just make out. "I suppose you are not from around here?"

Mjor was taken aback by the question, partly as he thought it was obvious, and partly as nobody from this town spoke to him much, not after they'd realised he wasn't a rich merchant with a ship packed full of gold. He hadn't told them that, they had merely tried to loot his ship. They had then worked it out themselves, and regretted their offer of help. "No, I am from the far north, from the mighty fire clan of Prox," Mjor replied, surprised by how much Prox had suddenly grown in his opinion: before it had just been, well, home. Now he saw it as some ideal, perfect place, unsurpassable.

"The fire clan," the stranger muttered. "Are you one of them?" Noticing the look on Mjor's face, he held out his hand, where a small block of ice formed, before moulding into the shape of a swan. "Can you?"

Mjor was amazed at what he saw. He had heard of other Adepts, but save those from Vale who had stayed in the north, he had never actually met one, let alone seen any type of psynergy other than fire. He held out his hand; a small flame spluttered into life. It was not an impressive display.

"I thought as much." The hooded man settled back into his seat. "So you are a long way from home, I take it?"

Mjor took a seat across from this man, and suddenly felt a lot more comfortable "A long way, yes… I was– I was kicked out…"

"Ah." The figure nodded. "Ah." He took a swig from a bottle he had at his waist. "Then we have much in common. You see, I too, was evicted from my homeland most unfairly."

"Why?"

"It's quite complicated… I was pursuing my own aims, and that backfired. They did not look well on my betrayal… One in particular…"

"I tried to help someone, and for that, I was banished," Mjor admitted, albeit withholding certain key details, as he was sure this stranger was doing. "Does that have anything to do with your attire?"

"The robes?" the man sounded shocked. "These are to disguise myself: there are a number of people who do not call me their friend."

"Are they right not to do so?"

"Maybe, maybe not… I did oppose them, although I never bore them any true emnity." The man shrugged. "I merely hope never to meet them and find out. One of them in particular, I hope I never meet again."

Mjor was about to ask one of who, but was stopped when he was called over to the other side of the bar. By the time he had finished his work, the man had gone.

The strange man dropped from his mind after that. He could not afford to dwell on what could have been his one outlet for true human contact: it was gone.

Or so he thought. It was three weeks later he saw him again, but first he saw… Her.

She was a dancer, by trade, and a traveller. It was as she performed in the square that Mjor got a good look at her. Her style of dress, of movement… It was all very alien to the Proxian, used as he was to the rugged resourcefulness of the north. She was different. Her hair was long, and a strange blue green colour that shimmered in the sun, and her clothes were white, designed to move freely like the air; and they moved as she danced in a way that made her look like a mirage. Mjor was deeply interested, and confused, by her.

"Strange, isn't she?" Mjor heard, as he leaned against a wall, watching her dance along with the gathering crowd whose applause rippled the air, and whose coins clattered softly at her feet. "But I think you can tell."

He turned, and was bemused to see that same robed man, with his small streak of blue white hair visible beneath his hood. "Can tell what?" Mjor asked, confused.

"She is like us." the robed man began "And yet also… Well, more like me than you."

"What do you mean?" Mjor asked, not understanding.

"She is an Adept," the man explained. "And she is part Lemurian."

Lemuria… A place Mjor had long thought to be a myth, a mere legend. That was until the nine travellers came to Prox, shortly before he was exiled. One of them had been Lemurian, and from certain ways about him, you could somehow tell. He was not the same; he was a little more… Aloof? It was not the right word. But you could tell that the man was a living relic. "So… You are part Lemurian?" Mjor asked uneasily, unsure if he was right.

"I'm impressed. Most people would assume I'm lying or deluded if I mentioned the place." He pointed to his hair. "It's where I got my gifts and looks." Mjor just nodded and was silent. "You want to leave here, don't you?" the man asked after a while "You want something _more_ from life."

Mjor looked at him, and felt at ease. His manner of talking made him want to admit, to confess. Strange. "Yes… I am allowed back to my home one day… But I cannot abide this method of waiting, ignored and disliked on the sidelines."

"In that case… Would you help me? Would you help _her_?" The robed man gestured to the girl as she finished her dance and began to pick up coins, whilst the crowd dispersed.

"To do what?" Mjor asked, although he had to admit he was tempted. His life now… Save the petty questions and affirmation needed for him to do his job, he had not spoken to a soul in twenty-seven days now, save the robed man. The people here hated him.

"We are going home." The robed man grinned. "To Lemuria, the seat of ancient power," he added in a voice which spoke of something… else. Mjor sensed that may not have been his reason.

He was about to ask more, but he saw the dancer approaching. She looked at him, and then at the robed man. "Who's the Pale Face?" she asked, in a manner which managed to avoid sounding like an insult. In a way.

"Our newest ally, if he wants it," the robed man told her.

Mjor bit his lip, then looked around the building. "Count me in." he said, after a moment's thought. He had a long time until he could return to Prox, and although it was tempting to wait it out here, the longer he stayed here, the less he found himself with the will to wake up each morning, to eat, to… Live. He decided to place his happiness ahead of his stability. He offered his hand to the dancer. "I am Mjor… I'll help."

The dancer raised an eyebrow, and uneasily shook his hand. "Aira," she said, looking at him with overt suspicion.

The robed man then gave Mjor a much more reassuring handshake. "Call me… Savant."


End file.
